


Cough Syrup

by mo_rgue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Draco Malfoy, Dark Hermione Granger, Depression, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Social Worker Hermione, Some OC Side Characters - Freeform, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29148954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mo_rgue/pseuds/mo_rgue
Summary: Ghosts have become a prominent aspect of life for survivors. Despite what many believed, life after the war was never quite the breath of fresh air Hermione Granger desperately needed. Prejudice, war, death, career, marriage, loss, and now a ghost from the past enters her life only to bring worse memories. Hermione begins to wonder if drowning in faerie wine is better than drowning in her sorrows.Demons are rarely the grotesque monsters written about through the centuries. Draco Malfoy has learned that they are often in the form of nightmares, specifically the nightmare with chocolate brown eyes, a mess of unnatural curls, and a smartass attitude much larger than she is. He thought that being released from Azkaban after all these years would warrant his life some slight normalcy. However, Draco learns to understand that demons, big or bossy, rarely hide.Neither realized they would find comfort in the monsters that live in the dark.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	1. 100 Bad Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Thank you for taking an interest in my fic. Just to get this out of the way, I do not own the characters, the world, or the background of the story, those rights are reserved for She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. However, I am so excited to finally get this ball rolling. The idea for this story began with a small scenario idea that came to me while listening to Young the Giant's "Cough Syrup", so to give credit, this fic is titled just the same to dedicate how much it truly means to me. The titles for chapters will also follow this pattern, so if you are looking to have a playlist that follows the story, just check the title of the chapter you are on and stream away. 
> 
> This is my first fic, but it is also the first work I have ever widely posted, and for all the anxiousness that comes with it, I am so looking forward to this journey. 2020 had allowed me to rediscover parts of myself that I thought were long gone, but here we are, and hopefully this work will be the first of many more, as well as published works in the future. 
> 
> This will be a multichapter fic, and it is a WIP, however, the plot has been heavily outlined, and I have gotten a few chapters in with writing. At the end of each update I will put the date to expect the next one. 
> 
> One last note before you begin, I wanna say thank you to @alltimekris. You have been such a great friend to me from the beginning. Without your great hype skills, and your genuine interest in fics that matches my own, I would probably have let this story sit on my shelf like many of my others. I cannot thank you enough for your support and kindness, as well as your editing skills. I hope it lives up to your expectations.

For Hermione Granger life only has few great things; warm windy days in May, the laughter of a child playing in the rain, a home cooked meal with amazing friends and family, and last but not least, a steamy hot cup of coffee on a particularly bad morning. However, today, the cup of coffee was just not cutting it.

The pounding inside of Hermione’s head never ceased despite this being her third cup of coffee for the day. She never quite understood why the workers in her office seemed to be so loud and cheerful each day, but between her lackluster coffee, the migraine growing between her eyes paired with nearly falling into a puddle outside her flat that morning, Hermione really wished for a moment of peace. As it stood, today would not allow that.

“-the grubby, little, pilfering beast is stealing from _my_ vault! I spoke to multiple advisors and even the Vault Manager that was on the floor, and the lot sided with that-that _thief_! Mrs. Weasley, you have to understand this is my _husband’s_ fortune; wealth passed down from centuries and I am being withheld from it!”

Hermione outwardly grimaced at the sound of her name coming from the chubby witch in front of her. The witch sat red-faced with her puggy nose stuck high into the air and her handbag nearly ripping under her grasp.

If not for using her “wedded” name, Hermione knew she would have despised the witch either way. The sneer she used upon entering her _very_ cluttered office was proof of that. _As if I have the time or need to fix_ my _working area to appease the likes of you_ , Hermione thought as she rubbed her temples again.

“Mrs. Gilcrest, I can assure you, the goblins of Gringotts rarely discriminate against their clients, and even yet, wish to steal from their vaults. It is my understanding they are heavily compensated for their work due to the high security measures, care, and accuracy in which they work. However, as it stands, I can only tell you this _one_ more time. I am in charge of magical _welfare_. I am _not_ a part of the Division for Magical Creatures. But—” Hermione began as she stood and peered out of her office down the hall to a room on the right, who just so happened to be occupied by a very unfortunate man,”—I believe that there is someone free who may assist you this time.”

As she made her way down the hall, Mrs. Gilcrest in tow, Hermione counted her blessings and thanked Merlin, Godric, Jesus Christ, and even Salazar bloody Slytherin that Sebastian Rubertin was in his office. She could feel the pounding in her head grow, mirroring the sound of the witch’s clicking heels behind her, and she was beyond ready to rid herself of the human headache, as well as her migraine.

_Knock! Knock, Knock!_

Hermione peered into the room, and sitting at the desk with bronzed skin, littered in freckles, and a smile rivaled only by the sun was Hermione’s greatest blessing. She verbally sighed as her shoulders slumped. Sebastian’s grin fell slowly when he seen her relax.

“Hermione, is every—” his voice was deep as it rumbled through the room, but she was quick to cut him off.

“Hey, Seb. You aren’t too busy at the moment, are you? No meetings scheduled?” Hermione asked with wide eyes, glancing quickly to her left at the witch hidden behind the wall. Sebastian followed her looks, a confused expression on his face.

“Uh, no. No, I have a free afternoon. Is there anything you need help—" Sebastian began again.

“Yes! Actually, now that you mention it! Sebastian,” Hermione moved to the right to allow for the witch to move into view. Sebastian’s gaze darkened as he looked at Hermione.

She looked at him pleadingly, “this is Mrs. Gilcrest. Mrs. Gilcrest, this is Sebastian Rubertin, he is Goblin Society Liaison with the Division for Magical Creatures. Seb—Mr. Rubertin, Mrs. Gilcrest has a complaint to file on a particular goblin in Gringotts over theft accusations, but she came to the wrong office, and as it seems I have other meetings to attend to within the next few minutes,” she stated and entered into his office. Sebastian stared at her, a glint in his eye, and creeping smile on his face as the witch hobbled into the room after her and took a seat across from him.

The witch began to look around and spotted a Muggle football trophy on a shelf behind Sebastian’s desk, and scoffed loudly. The coworkers turned their attention back to the witch and then back to each other. Hermione tilted her head as to say, _Please, please,_ please _get this crazy bint off my back._

Sebastian smirked. Hermione cringed. She definitely owed him after this.

“Mrs. Gilcrest, it is my pleasure to make the acquaintance of such a lovely wi—” Sebastian was cut off, yet again, by Mrs. Gilcrest beginning her story _again_ with high emotion. Much more emotional than when she was retelling the events in Hermione’s office.

Sebastian’s eyes widen at the rate in which she was spouting the occurrence, but also at the widely colorful adjectives she used to describe the goblins. Hermione had to agree the witch’s vocabulary was spectacular, as she herself never knew there were so many synonyms for one to use in place of “thieving bastard”.

She chanced another look at Sebastian, seeing he was, _actually_ genuinely interested in Mrs. Gilcrest’s story, and left his office to return to her own.

The Ministry had taken a huge hit after the war, what with all of the corruption, as well as the countless laws and regulation put into place because of it, there had to be lots of changes made. Once Kingsley Shacklebolt had taken office, reformations began immediately. Beginning, much to Hermione’s dismay, with the Auror’s Office and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It truly made sense that he would begin there reassuring the public that Death Easters, Death Eater sympathizers, as well as their associates were going to be taken care of thoroughly and justly. And they did with fervor.

Within ten months of the end of the Battle of Hogwarts, over ninety percent of assumed Death Eaters and Voldemort’s associates had been detained and awaiting trial. At this time, Hermione had been attending the newly restored Hogwarts, for her _official_ seventh year, despite Headmistress McGonagall declaring the returning seventh year students _eighth years_.

Hermione had finished Hogwarts that following summer, top of both her “eighth” year class, and the seventh-year class attending, much to the disappointment of some of her younger classmates. Kingsley had approached her in July of 1998 and confided in some of his plans with the departments within the Ministry, all of which Hermione fully supported and wanted to be a part of.

Now, eight years later, she was the Head of the Division for Magical Being Livelihood and Welfare, a position she holds with pride. Her job allows her to work closely with the werewolf population, house-elf communities, and even muggleborns like herself. One could consider her job the wizarding equivalent to a Muggle social worker and Hermione loved every minute of it, aside from moments like the one she had with Mrs. Gilcrest.

Hermione stood in the midst of the office chaos, divisional committee members chattering amongst themselves near their cubicles, division Heads in discussions outside of office doors, and the occasional owl swooping through the window to deliver letters to the Ministry workers. Yes, today was like any other, and she was still in a very shitty mood.

Her office was still empty when she had finally reached her desk. The charmed hourglass on her desk read 11:42 a.m. With a groan, Hermione laid her head on her desk mumbling to herself, “…need to stop…get Sober-Up potion supplies…if Seb might have some Advil…”.

A small _thud_ sounded beside her head. She rose to see a small, copper-toned owl perched on top of her hourglass peaking pat the half-eaten muffin by her forgotten coffee. The letter brought by the owl looked ordinary, a red seal, spindly writing across the front, and an unspoken sense of urgency.

“You wouldn’t happen to know if this was important, would you?” Hermione asked the little owl. It turned its too-big-for-its-head-eyes her way and seemed to be staring into her soul.

She sighed, “Yeah, I suppose you wouldn’t,” and gave the bird her muffin as it flew out her window. 

The writing across the letter was all too familiar to Hermione. She had slightly suspected the letter in any case, but she was hoping for its contents to be the harbinger of better rest of her day. As the seal broke, and the letter unfolded, Hermione smiled a sigh of relief:

_Mrs. Weasley (Granger),_

_Our meeting set at 3 p.m. today will need to be moved to tomorrow at the same time. I apologize for the suddenness, but it seems there has been an issue at Azkaban needing my attendance._

_Esmerelda Vasquez_

_Head Director of the Department of Control and Regulation of Magic_

Hermione grabbed her robes, and her bag from the hanger near her door as she left. Her coffee left cold and forgotten on her desk. It had turned out to be a great day after all.


	2. Scar Tissue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. Chapter 2 is here for you. I hope you enjoy.  
> I want to just say that with the issues that have risen within the dramione community, but also the Harry Potter fandom in general is really upsetting to me. Please be considerate of author's and their works. You do not have to support them if you do not wish, but negative actions are not necessary. Please be kind.  
> Thank you <3

London was much busier than usual. The end of August usually welcomed more shoppers frequenting the small shops lining the streets. Hermione weaved her way through the crowds, hoping to avoid as many people as possible. Her undesirable meeting with Mrs. Gilcrest that morning had exhausted her beyond what her hangover had, and despite all of her attempts, her migraine had persisted.

Hermione rounded a corner, dodging a mother as she pushed her child in a carriage. Her favorite part of her weekly routine laid before her. The florescent neon sign of Riley’s Pub glowed in the afternoon sun.

_Ding!_

The door of Riley’s rang as she stepped through. Stale beer, burgers, and some other third smell wafted by her.

She smiled.

Riley’s Pub was a complete shit hole and people rarely came through except for Friday and Saturday night bar hoppers and the occasional group of university students. And it was her favorite place to go for lunch.

“Hey! Johnny! It’s stranger Granger! Same as always, Has-Been Weasley?” said a voice to the right, his back turned. He spoke mockingly, silky just the same as all the other purebloods, but she supposed here he just sounded much more proper than what would be expected by an occupant at Riley’s.

Hermione turned, “Yes, please, _Theodore_. That would be lovely,” and laid her robes—transfigured into a coat—on the stool and sat crossing her legs.

“Bit early, aren’t you? Did the _witch_ let you go early?” Theo turned his face tilted into a smirk.

The summer had caused a golden tint to color his skin bringing out a few freckles that were spattered across his nose, but aside from the aqua blue of his eyes, many people would not recognize him as the Nott family heir.

Theo’s hair had grown from the short style he managed throughout Hogwarts. Hermione supposed this was in part due to his small house arrest he’d been warranted during the Death Eater arraignment, and then Theo’s knack for doing everything opposite of what his upbringing had asked of him. His hair and working here at Riley’s were low on the bar of disappointing things Theo had accomplished the past six years.

No. The most outrageous act she believed came in the form of art—tattoos, specifically, tattoos that covered almost every inch of his skin—that she could see—from his neck to his fingertips to the top of his ankles.

They weren’t all muggle tattoos of course, there were some wizarding tattoos that behaved very well while he worked. If not for the dragon wrapped around his forearm winking at her one afternoon a couple years before, she would have been none-the-wiser.

Despite all of his changes, some things would always seem to remain the same and for Theo that included his uninhibited need to be an absolute smart arse.

“Yes, “the witch” let me go. I had a meeting cancel and then Mrs. Vasquez had an urgent engagement at Azkaban,” Hermione stated with a stern tone. Honestly, how had he not been sent to the Ministry for violating the Statute of Secrecy.

Theo placed a pint in front of Hermione and began wiping the counter were some beer had spilled, his eyebrows raised high.

“’Urgent engagement’ you say? At Azkaban? Oh, Merlin, how I hope that it was my father. What would that get him now—387 years?” He smiled with a glint in his eye that only shone in resentment.

“Yeah, probably, although I don’t really think it was your father. He can be an arse to the guards and the other inmates, but with the way those sympathizer and anti-groups have been gathering, I think the Wizengamot has been cutting extended sentencing,” Hermione voiced what she had been hearing from Harry the past few weeks. With the increase in Muggle and Wizarding attacks by Death Eater sympathizer groups, on top of the number of threats against the Reformed had left the Auror’s Office in shambles.

“I have even heard that some of the Azkaban prisoners may be released early for showing signs of remorse, rehabilitation, or good behavior,” she said conspiratorially taking a large gulp from her glass lifting her brows just as he had moments before. She knew Theo would enjoy hearing this news.

Theo’s eyes flashed in surprise, his smile slowly falling into a look of confusion and curiosity.

“Huh, is that so?” He questioned aloud.

“Yes, from what I have gotten from _inside_ resources,” she winked and smiled at him genuinely, “You are my favorite success story, Theo. The program did you well and I hope it will continue to in the future. My job is hard, and it can sometimes be right shit, but then I come here for lunch and you erase all of my doubts.”

“Ah, now Granger. People will begin to think your flirting with me,” he started and laid his palms flat on the bar leaning forward so he lingered above her. She could smell his cologne, deep woodsy, almost sweet. Her lips parted as she stared into his eyes, lost in the ocean that swirled within his irises.

Then he whispered, “I don’t think Weasley #5 will appreciate me snatching up his arm candy.”

_Ding!_

Hermione turned her face to the left and smiled brightly at the newcomer. George Weasley strolled across the room and plopped into the stool beside her. It was almost a relief to see him as high-spirited as ever.

George and Hermione had grown into a routine that many of the other Weasley’s didn’t quite understand, especially _Ronald_.

Just the thought of his name had Hermione fuming and finishing off the rest of her pint.

“Theo, can we get another round please,” she asked him with her brows furrowed. Theo placed her usual meal in front of her, nodded slowly giving her a questioning look before turning to grab another glass

“Alright there, Hermione,” George asked taking a drink from the glass Theo had sat down. Both men scrutinized her.

She grumbled, “Yeah, I’m fine. I just remembered that I have six weeks and four days before my divorce is finalized.”

Theo snorted and George grinned.

“C’mon, Mione. It can’t be that fucking awful being a Weasley can it? I mean, I’ve been one my whole life, and frankly, I am doing splendid,” George replied cheekily with a nudge to her shoulder.

Hermione’s smile graced her lips, “I suppose being a Weasley hasn’t been all that terrible. I have gotten to eat some amazing food over the years. But nothing is nearly as great as these fish and chips,” she pointed at the basket in front of her and then pointed at Theo, “You tell Johnny when I’m rich and famous I’m hiring him to cook for me 24/7.”

Theo laughed and shook his head, his dark hair swept across his ears.

“Granger. You _are_ rich and famous. Did you forget about that between saving the house-elves and solving world hunger?” he said teasingly.

She threw her head backing laughing, George chuckled beside her while Theo turned around to head to the kitchen to get another basket for George.

If someone had told her ten years ago that her average Wednesday lunch break would look like this, she would have called them barmy and suggested a check up in St. Mungo’s, but to her surprise, she quite enjoyed these meetings each week. She often looked forward to them if she could be honest.

It’s not like George and Theo are awful to look at either.

George had filled out through the years. Not nearly as tall as Bill, or as broad as Charlie, George had fallen somewhere in the middle.

He was often seen in his signature orange, but over time had lost his need to dress in wacky suits. Instead he wore tight-fitted dress shirts—still patterned—with black or brown trousers.

Today was not any different. His hair was swept to the side, a slight pink tinge to his cheeks from the family quidditch game the previous weekend. The only difference in his presence seemed to be the stubble peppered along his jaw, but it fit him quite well.

“I’m sorry if I kept you waiting. The shop was swarmed right before I left. It appears there is an uptake in attendance at Hogwarts this year, if the state of Diagon Alley is any indication. How many letters do you think McGonagall will send me this year? I received twelve last year just for Sneakoscopes alone,” George admitted his tone was light and she could almost hear the laugh behind his words.

She had to admit that it had been quite a long time since she had seen George genuinely happy. After the night of the battle, he had not quite been the same. Then again, she supposed she wasn’t either. Life was much too short.

“10 Galleons says you won’t make it the first week without a Howler,” she wagered with a smirk. Her second glass was empty again and Theo had returned with George’s food just in time to get her another.

“15 and I’ll have one by Saturday,” he smirked back and clinked their glasses.

“As much as I enjoy watching the two of you unabashedly in love with each other, are either of you going to Twizted Saturday night?” Theo asked.

“Nah, mate. I only go on theme nights you know that,” George said taking a drink, “The nights are much more interesting that way,” he winked at Theo throwing a fry into his mouth.

“I don’t know why you ask me anymore, Theo. You know I’ll be there,” she declared finishing the last of her lunch.

“Yeah, Granger? Then why don’t I ever see your saucy, little arse shaking on the dancefloor, hm? I think you’re making it all up to seem cool to the big kids,” Theo laughed.

She laughed back mockingly leaning across the bar. Theo followed her actions, mere inches stood between them. George drank the rest of his beer shaking his head.

“Laugh all you want, _Theodore_ , I know how to have a good time. Maybe you just can’t keep up with me,” she whispered. Hermione leaned back and winked, “I’ll see you Saturday, but you won’t see me. George, we still helping Harry and Ginny Friday?” He nodded chewing a mouthful of his lunch.

“Okay, we can meet at my flat. 7:30 okay?” she asked grabbing her coat.

“Yes, that’s fine. Have a good day. I’ll see you then,” George nudged her shoulder and finished off the rest of his meal.

“Until next week, boys,” she waved and walked out of Riley’s, a _Ding!_ following her.

Thursday at the office continued the same as always. Loud chatter in the cubicles, loony old witches demanding the removal of an individual from their home, workplace, or social area. Hermione truly didn’t know why people believed she was responsible for those situations.

Her job as the Head of the Division for Magical Being Livelihood and Welfare meant she dealt with individuals who were often in difficult situations.

Werewolves who couldn’t find jobs, house-elves with abusive owners, and even muggleborns who had found themselves subjected to muggle orphanages. The last was built entirely on her own as a contingency plan for preventing another Tom Riddle from entering the wizarding world.

However, her favorite part of her job was overseeing the Reformed committee. After Kingsley had developed the new departments in the Ministry, and the extensive amount of dark wizards had been indicted, the wizarding world had found a new problem.

What happened to the prisoners when they were released from Azkaban?

Hermione had come up with a solution after a summer rekindling a few of her Muggle friendships from her childhood. Jeannette Walker, a girl who lived three houses down from her, had explained to her that after university she had lived in the States for a year or so working as a social worker.

The information was like a light bulb above Hermione’s head. She had asked Jeannette what the job was like and what was included in the job description. Jeannette returned to the States after her holiday.

Hermione returned to work the Monday after they had drinks with a Department proposal for starting the Reform Program. The following morning, her proposal had an encouraging stamp of approval.

Kingsley spoke with Esmeralda and Hermione was given the task of interviewing and hiring a team of eight who would stand as case workers—finding the released prisoners jobs with a list of complying owners, mostly muggle businesses like Riley’s ran by muggleborns or squibs, as well as housing, rehabilitation, and counseling.

It took her nearly four months, but Hermione had successfully launched the beginning of the program with Dean Thomas as her first volunteer and first-in-command.

Since then, Hermione’s committee had successfully placed and house over 40 ex-Death Eaters and associates. Theo Nott was Hermione’s favorite example.

When he was first on her schedule for a meeting, Hermione was beyond scared of entering Nott Manor, but she had soon realized that Theo’s father didn’t have a long-lasting influence on his son.

Once Theo had entered counseling and rehabilitation, his attitude toward her had changed so quickly her head spun. He accepted the job at Riley’s with no hesitation, and even agreed to stay in a flat in the same building as Dean.

She believed this was around the time he began his muggle tattoo journey and told his pureblood tendencies to go fuck themselves. The only thing that tied him to those beliefs were the eloquence in how he spoke and his last name.

Hermione was extremely proud of herself for the work she had done in her division. Her job had changed from working with them one-on-one, to overseeing all of the clients as a whole, signing off on paperwork, approving different rehab courses, as well as adjusting resources to fit the individual’s needs.

The hourglass on her desk flashed brightly a few times.

_2:55 p.m._

She sighed loudly and grabbed her wand and began to put the files away that laid across her desk. The window in her office closed just as the last file slid into her shelf. Hermione stood and straightened her pencil skirt smoothing down her curls that had fallen from her bun. The summer heat was never so kind to her hair.

 _This better be fucking good_ , she thought to herself and grabbed her things. She walked out of her small office, waving her hand and wandlessly diming the lights of her office. Her heels echoed across the floor as she walked straight down the hall from her office to Esmeralda’s. Blood rushed through her ears the closer she approached the door.

_Knock Knock Knock!_

“Come in!” Esmeralda’s voice cut through the air harshly. Hermione walked through the door.

Esmeralda was a tempered little witch. Tall, skinny with eyes much too large for her narrow face. Esmeralda had red hair, like may of the people in her life, but her short curly locks were closer to maroon. She always wore Muggle-like clothes with a wizardry twist.

Today, she was sitting at her desk in short, tight, bright lavender dress robes. It was something like what Hermione knew Pansy Parkinson had been working on at her internship at Twilfitt and Tattings.

“You wanted to see me, Mrs. Vasquez?” Hermione asked quietly. Despite working for the witch for nearly a decade, Hermione had learned that her temper was something not to be messed with.

“Yes, thank you for staying, Mrs. Weasley,” Esmeralda spoke. Hermione cringed. _That damned name._ “As I mentioned yesterday, there has been a few…issues with someone in Azkaban,” Esmeralda stated with a knowing look at Hermione.

“Is everything alright?” Hermione asked as she sat in the chair across from Esmeralda.

“That is precisely why you are here. It has come to my attention that there is a potential client who is looking at early release sometime in the next month or so,” she smiled a wicked grin that shown her sharp canines.

“Oh, well that is wonderful, Mrs. Vasquez, but I don’t understand why we needed to have this personal meeting, ma’am,” Hermione spoke carefully. She really did not want to unnerve her boss this close to leaving.

“Well. Mrs. Weasley, this client has shown a huge disposition to his reformation, but he is refusing to speak to anyone on your committee. I believe that you may be best to take this case personally. You seem to have a talent for fixing even the most broken things,” Esmeralda answered with a shadow of the smile on her face.

“Thank you, ma’am. That really means a lot to me. I’m flattered,” Hermione spoke the joy clear in her voice. She hadn’t had a personal client since she worked with Theo and Pansy in the beginning of the program.

Esmeralda opened a drawer in her desk and retrieved a file that she pushed across the desk to Hermione. The file was quite ordinary, only this one was notably thick with what Hermione guessed was hundreds of reports of instances in Azkaban and sessions with counselors.

“Hermione,” Esmeralda began, shocking Hermione by using her name, “this is an extremely important case. This client is high profile and will come with a lot of hard work and dedication. I need you to understand this,” she concluded. The look on her face was sincere.

“I understand,” Hermione said. She grabbed the folder from the desk. “Who is the client anyway?” She asked as she opened the folder. She gasped and nearly dropped the file in her hands.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the photo from Azkaban.

“You’re client Mrs. Weasley,” Esmeralda started while piercing gray eyes sneered at Hermione from the photograph—she could feel her stomach in her throat.

Esmeralda continued, “Draco Malfoy.”


	3. Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this chapter is "Trouble" by Cage the Elephant.  
> I hope you guys enjoy it <3
> 
> *Update- I have fixed a few discrepancies I have noticed.

The initial shock of her meeting with Esmeralda hadn’t fallen away the next day. Hermione moved on autopilot, leaving the office to go home and drown herself in two bottles of faerie wine to ease the anxiety she could feel bubbling within her. Never would she have believed she would have to face him again.

Draco Malfoy had shown a lot of promise within the counseling the Ministry had provided to Azkaban prisoners, but after looking through his file, Hermione had seen that this wasn’t much of a shining light upon his character.

Dozens of reports had been filed on his behavior, or lack thereof. Many of the issues seemed to be physical altercations between himself and other Death Eaters imprisoned. This baffled her. Why? Why was he acting in such a way toward the others who had been on _his_ side of the war?

Hermione had every right to assume that they were all just the greatest _friends_ , so why were there at least three forms laid out on her coffee table detailing near death disputes caused by his hand within the past two months. The images attached were not for faint of heart.

One that had her particularly nauseous was taken in the guarded ward of St. Mungo’s, the man rendered unrecognizable aside from the black and purple bruising peeking from beneath bloody bandages around his face.

The account said that this man was Lucian Bole, an old member of Slytherin. According to the information within the file, he was only a few years older than Hermione, but she couldn’t recall him from Hogwarts. From what she could understand, Bole was lucky to still be alive, and she had no idea why Malfoy was even being considered for release.

His trial had made the front page of The Daily Prophet for months. All anyone in the wizarding world could talk about was what would come of the Malfoy heir. Hermione had sat through a few of his sessions, and his charges were mild compared to many of the other Death Eater’s. The worst she could remember was his use of the Unforgivables during his sixth and seventh years, under the reign of the Carrows, and the attempted murder of Dumbledore, which Harry had been able to remove with his testimony.

Looking at the images of dozens of prisoners lying in infirmary beds, at the hands—literally the hands, since no weapons were discovered to be used—of Malfoy had her seriously concerned.

Is he a person we can truly trust to be reformed?

This much violence was not apparent during his active participation in the destruction of the world, and yet here he is, on the cusp of being released and free—with a few exceptions of course—but the fear was still there.

Hermione tossed the file onto her coffee table, the force knocking over her wine glass, spilling the last of her second bottle of faerie wine across the files and forms she had laid there.

“Ah! Dammit,” she huffed and jumped up to save the few pieces of parchment she was able to. She grabbed her wand and cleaned up what she could of the mess, but many of the forms had already been stained.

Hermione grumbled, “Fucking great. Just what I needed.” She conjured another bottle of wine and poured what should have been her last glass. Kneeling in the floor observing the damage that had been made, she couldn’t help but feel the irony of the port red stains loitering the pages.

It was poetic.

Against the details of the brutal assaults, the wine shown in stark contrast against the black and white pages like spatters of blood. A life like replication of the damage she knew Malfoy was capable of bestowing.

She sat back on her heels, drinking heavily from the glass perched between her fingers, absentmindedly picking at the chipped polish on her nails. Before her seemed like a crime scene, the cataclysmic result of her life clashing into the tragedy of Draco Malfoy.

Death, violence, destruction masked in the sickly-sweet bitterness only she knew she could possess.

Yes, this whole situation was nothing less than pure fucking poetry, and Merlin be damned did she hate fucking Shakespeare.

The glass of wine was soon empty, and the papers were slowly being sorted back into their designated piles she had laid out before. Just as she was finishing and wandlessly pouring her yet another glass of the blessed wine, her breath was caught in her throat.

The mugshot of Malfoy upon his initial arrest faced her. It seemed that everything in her home—in her world—stopped. Her pulse raced thrumming in her ears just the same as it had the previous day. For Godric’s sake, couldn’t she get a _grip_ on herself!

Hundreds of images flashed before her eyes.

The Hogwarts Express sitting with Neville as he searched frantically through the compartment for Trevor while a shocking flash of white flitted passed the compartment window, in a passing moment she caught the icy gaze of the boy as he glanced inside. He almost paused, eyes widening, almost like a hiccup in his step, then as quickly as their eyes met, he looked away, casting another glance her way as he walked past with a group of other students.

The Great Hall, white-blonde hair standing in the front of the large crowd of first years, snorting as the Sorting Hat declared her place in Gryffindor. The sneer on his pointed face as she passed him to go to her table.

The courtyard confrontation when the quidditch teams had double booked the pitch. Pride glittering his molted eyes as he belittled Harry, then the trepidation when she had been snarky.

Nothing had hurt her so severely before the moment she watched with ease as the slur flew from his lips.

Him stowed away in a small alcove within the library, a smile grazing his lips—the same ones that had promised her a lifetime of fighting for her place within the world he believed was his to own—and it had never been so beautiful.

The same smile crinkling the features on his otherwise poised face surrounded by his friends at the Slytherin table—a moment she sought out so times throughout her time in school. A moment that gave her enough hope that one day her life in the wizarding world could be as bright as his eyes once the smile met them.

If he, the picture of what the old world was built upon, could live so freely, could live in genuine glee despite the weight he carried, then couldn’t Hermione live this way too?

Her running through the aisle of the Great Hall into Harry’s warm embrace, the embrace she had been reliving within the confines of her mind those long days she was trapped within her body after a glimpse at the basilisk that had once roamed the pipes of the castle. Her eyes scanning the students around them, catching his for a moment, just as they had on that very first day on the train. His full of surprise and, oddly, relief.

The image of him falling at the feet of Buckbeak. Fear rolling off of him as the hippogriff struck, and Hermione grasping Ron anticipating the worst of his fate.

The air filling her lungs finally released as she watched Hagrid gingerly lift him from the ground to carry him to the Hospital Wing. Blood dripping down his arm as they passed the group of Third Years standing idly.

The same fear evident in his hard gaze as he stared down at her, the tip of her wand shoved harshly against the smooth porcelain of his throat. His tongue darting to wet his lips holding their stare exhaling a minty waft of air in relief when she lowered her wand. The triumphant grin skirting passed her face as she felt the weight of her fist colliding with his face.

A crack in the granite.

A sacrifice of his precious _pure_ blood at the cost of her _muddy_ hands.

This was her conquest.

The shift of his behavior. The cautious controlled way he carried himself speaking to Harry and Ron at the World Cup. Her disgraced title flowing through the atmosphere to sit like a cloud around her mind, warning tied surreptitiously to his words.

Countless people watching her descending the staircase. Her knowing she should only be looking at Viktor, with his hand held out for her taking, but only having the strength to gaze at the awestruck sculpture of aristocratic etiquette dressed meticulously in expensive black robes meters away.

They passed.

He had nothing to say, but his eyes told a story of a thousand words.

The smirk. The infamous smirk countless witches in the castle swooned for, thrown her way. The spell Umbridge cast tore the wall of the Room of Requirement to pieces. She stood to the side; wand ready for whatever the witch could even think to conjure their way. She was the only one brave enough to raise her wand to her, a professor! The others stared at her in awe, in shock, in fear. He looked at her, smirking, like he was amused—like he was proud.

Him restraining her arms in Umbridge’s office, gazing down at her inquisitively as she goaded Umbridge for their release. Looking at her face as if he was searching for a true answer. A knowing expression passed as the mercury of his irises harden into steel. His gripped lessened. He stood straighter, volunteering to go with them into the forest.

A gasp slicing the silence polluting the ghostly illuminated hall of the Department of Mysteries. Steel stared back at her, rendering her incapable of thought. White blonde flashing in the hurried movements followed by bright streams of purple light from the wand gripped in the hand in front of her.

Harry cast a protection charm as she regained her footing.

Hermione had dreamed once upon a time that this meeting could have been held over tea. Not during a fight, she wondered if she would be able to survive.

Spells were thrown haphazardly across the room. _Thuds_ sounded off the echoing walls as witches and wizards had thrown the stone that would continue to ripple through the wizarding world for the next 3 years.

A sickly green stream of power impaled her side. Instantly, she felt as if she were drowning on her own air. Gasps poured from her lips as Hermione scrambled away from the hooded figure descending on her. Another rushed to the figure's side and harshly threw them into the midst of a duel between Professor Lupin and someone else behind a mask.

Blood spluttered from her lips, drops hitting the mask inches from her face. Crimson glowing in the iridescence of the battle around her. The man stared down at her, a knowing expression passed as the steel melted into mercury.

She had never seen him look so ill. He had lost all of the weight he seemed to have gained through the years from quidditch, and now just seemed like a ghost of the boy he once was. His eyes were ice staring into her soul, chilling her to the bone, through the photograph on the cover of The Daily Prophet.

_June 5 th, 1996 _

** Death Eater Lucius Malfoy Sentenced to Azkaban for Crimes Against Wizarding Humanity **

The mugshot of Lucious Malfoy from her sixth year at Hogwarts was a far cry from that of his son's, taken just two years later. Hermione could remember the way Lucious seemed so calm in his photo, as if his stay at the prison--that at the time was heavily occupied by Dementors--was nothing more than a lounge in his study.

The Malfoy she was currently watching move with languid motions and a seething rage was one she had never encountered. The flash of the camera captured in the moving image highlighted the urgency hidden behind the blank metallics of his eyes.

She had seen him scared, so scared he was unable to move from his seat at the desk in the Malfoy Manor’s drawing room as Bellatrix Lestrange physically sealed the promise into her skin, that Draco had once uttered into existence.

Malfoy was no stranger to fear, but his affluence for self-preservation guaranteed him the ability to survive. However, the sneer he possessed in the photo provided in his file shown Hermione just how terrified the boy truly was.

And he was just that—a terrified boy. He wasn’t even 18 years-old when he had been arrested, and his sentencing was finalized barely three months after the first trial date.

Hermione slowly grazed her fingers across his cheek in the photo, now soaked in bloody red wine splotches. Blood had poured between them too many times for this moment to not truly be poetic.

Pure blood.

Mud blood.

Blood soaked bandages.

Blood drips.

Bloody nose.

Blood spattered Death Eater mask.

She sighed resuming her wandless magic organizing the mess of papers in her sitting room and pouring her glass of wine.

“Where did you go, Draco?”

The last she seen of his face before stowing his mugshot away was of him as he was first dragged before the camera, glancing nervously around, breathing heavy, his anxiety pouring out of the image before he went still. 

A mask replaced his face.

Steel. Sneer. Death Eater.

* * *

George tripped through the flashing green hue of the Floo just as the clock on Hermione’s wall struck seven o’clock. She had just finished her third bottle of faerie wine for the night.

He stood in front of her in his old muggle band shirt and a pair dark gray trackies, the charm he usually cast to sweep his hair to the side had warn off so now it grazed the tips of his lashes sticking up in odd places.

George was fucking fit and she was definitely not afraid to say it.

“Well, don’t you look positively knackered,” he snorted hiding an amused gleam in his amber eyes that appeared to glow in the light of her fireplace.

She had to agree that she was most definitely knackered, but anyone would be if they had their world slightly turned on its head.

“Stuff it, George. Give me a moment to change and take a Sober Up. I didn’t realize it was this late already. I’ve been going over some very…sensitive…information Esmeralda dumped on me at my meeting yesterday. It has been an absolute nightmare the past two days,” she remarked exasperated. Hermione picked up her empty bottles and glass and began to make her way to the kitchen in the next room. George soundlessly followed her.

“’M sorry, ‘Mione. Is there anything I could help with, luv? Would you like for me to grab the potion for you instead? We can just transfigure your clothes to something more comfortable,” he began but his eyes widen after he realized what he had said, “I mean, uh, more comfortable to watch the kids in. I-I didn’t mean anything…” George’s face flushed a shade that rivaled that of his hair. Hermione couldn’t help but grin.

“George. George. It’s alright. I didn’t take it indecently. I know you well enough. If you meant it indecently, you would have made it right known,” she smirked and continued, “And I would just transfigure my office attire, but Harry said yesterday when we Floo called that James is experiencing accidental magic, and I really don’t want to try my luck with magical stains on my favorite trousers.”

His face still flushed slowly contorted into a slightly smug grin.

“I suppose you’re right. I would be very obvious in my indecency. And might I just add, ‘Mione, your arse is fucking fantastic in your favorite trousers, so yes. You should 100% change into something much more comfortable. I would hate to lose this sight forever.” The octave his voice lowered to become a purr that sounded across the room sending shudders up Hermione’s spine.

George raised a brow and left his gaze to wonder over her—a lowcut, burgundy sweater that cinches at the waist just below her bust left to flow freely and her black and white plaid, knit trousers tapered just slightly below the middle of her calf. If she hadn’t already began to relax when she walked through her door, she would have still been wearing the same burgundy colored stilettos that laced around her ankle.

Now it was she who was blushing furiously. She looked down at her painted toes. The light purple polish chipping as badly as what she was picking at now on her fingers.

She shook her head exhaling a nervous laugh, “You don’t honestly believe that do you? It’s just me, George.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he smirked.

Hermione was unsure what to say. Yes, the two of them flirted, but they always had. Just like she did with Fr-…

The chill running throughout her body was like someone had thrown a bucket of water over her. The walls built within her consciousness crumbled to dust.

“We’re going to be late,” she stated matter-of-factly and brushed past him to her bedroom. How could she be so stupid. She shouldn’t be ruining another goddamn day living in the past.

 _For fuck’s sake, Hermione. He wasn’t even your fucking brother,_ she thought to herself hatefully as tears began to spill over her cheeks. It was the same cycle day in and day out.

The skies could be the brightest, lightest blue the world had ever experienced, but the hurricane that thrived within Hermione’s mind could never be put to rest. She had already done that to too many people that she cared too much about—that she loved too much, unconditionally.

Slowly, she rebuilt her walls, storing away the flashes of mischievous ginger grins and heartfelt laughter into large leather-bound tomes on shelves that reached far beyond the expanses of her mind.

She never wanted to forget him, or any of the others, but opening one book led to a flood wrought by her hurricane and her dam wasn’t strong enough. She wasn’t strong enough no matter what everyone thought.

Just as slowly as she Occluded, she dressed. The jumper she wore was one Ginny had gotten her a few years before. Hermione wasn’t concerned about the magical stains as Teddy had already caused enough damage to the garment not even minutes after she had first worn it.

The shorts she paired with the jumper had sadly met the same fate by a small spitfire with blonde curls as unmanageable as her own. Bill and Fleur were really unprepared for the fierce little witch Victoire was soon going to be.

The last of her walls fell into place as Hermione rounded the corner of her hall to see George sitting on the sofa. He seemed speechless and unsure of himself skimming across the stacks of forms laid out on her table.

“’Mione, please don’t be angry, but did you kill a bloke? These papers are littered with red stains, and if that’s the case, I take back my comment on your arse,” he mumbled hurriedly eyeing the wine stains of the parchment.

She burst into a fit of laughter, a compete change in what she was a mere five minutes ago. Tears streamed down her face, but this time they didn’t hold the weight of her own self-hatred and despair.

“No, George! Merlin. You act as if I’m a witch to be feared,” laughing incredulity she strolled to the closet by her front door retrieving her trainers.

It was a quiet a moment as she laced her sneakers. Hermione glanced at George and seen him staring at her blankly.

“What is it?” she questioned him confused.

“’As if I’m a witch to be feared.’” He mocked her in a freakishly high-pitched voice.

George looked like he’d never been so dumbfounded.

“Fucking hell yeah, you’re a witch to be feared. Are you daft? Pfft. Of course, you aren’t bloody daft, Hermione. I’m positive everyone is scared shitless of you when you are in a good mood. Don’t even get me started on how fucking terrifying you are when you’re brassed off. Your bloody hair starts to fucking _spark_ , luv,” he looked at her pointedly, like she should have known this by now.

“Yeah, whatever you say,” she rolled her eyes and stood, “Let’s get going, yeah?”

He stood with her walking to the Floo. George didn’t move to leave. She grabbed a handful of Floo powder, turned, and looked at him questioning, but he just stared over his shoulder at the files.

“No, seriously. Is that blood?” His eyes were scrutinizing.

Hermione just laughed and shook her head stepping into the fireplace.

* * *

Firewhisky after a night of watching the two youngest Potters was inherently inevitable. The excruciating headache that firewhisky paired with faerie wine resulted in was, if Hermione could be honest, a real son of a bitch.

Don’t get her wrong, she absolutely loved James and baby Al, but they were nothing short of a reminder of what she wouldn’t have—couldn’t have.

James had the darkest, richest brown eyes. They haunted her. Their innocence cut her so deeply. She couldn’t see them and not see roses falling into the pit that Hermione felt in her chest each day.

Roses.

Roses.

_Rose._

It has been almost four years, and she could still see her smile. Hear her laugh. The same mischievous ginger grin she stowed away earlier the night before but much smaller, much brighter.

Hermione had believed she knew what love was before, but nothing had surmounted the exploding devotion she had for her daughter—still has for her daughter and every Godric damned thing that reminded her of what she had lost.

Ron thought he understood. Of course, he had, he had been there through everything just as I had, but he couldn’t ever understand that hole of Tartarus gaping in her chest.

He left after she was gone every single day. He didn’t help Hemione, hold Hermione, carry Hermione. No one could.

So, she Occluded.

She drank.

She drank firewhisky and faerie wine and butterbeer and muggle alcohol to feel warmth in her chest again. Warmth that had long left her when she had found Rose lying in the grass by her swing set at The Burrow. Hermione often wondered if she would ever feel the warmth and light that Rose gave her ever again.

Occlusion only did so much to help the ache she felt each day. Hermione had mastered occlusion soon after the war as the ache—then had been small, uncomfortable—first began.

She hid away everyone they had lost into their own shelf stored inside her mind. It had often become a place she felt she could go to hide away when the world around her felt too much.

Now, every small thing reminded her. James’s eyes, George’s presence reminding her of Fred who she knew would have been Rose’s partner in crime with how close she had been to his twin, the rose bushes that lined the gate of the park near her home, the smell of peanut butter, and Ron.

What Hermione had done to Ron she regretted each day.

She lived with so much self-hatred and anger and despair that she always felt like she was drowning in her hurricane unless she hid. Hid behind the walls and the tomes and the rows upon rows of memories that she could never bear to relive.

Even then, though, the dam she built often spilled over. On these days, she found herself staring in the mirror.

A stranger looked back.

The woman before her had black hair, pin straight that cut short at her jawline which was just as sharp. Glazed crystal blue eyes blinked repeated.

Every time Hermione did this it didn’t quite become easier. The experience was only comparable to something out of body. She raised one hand, and, in the mirror, the black-haired girl mimicked her.

 _That isn’t me,_ she kept repeating to herself.

_That woman is strong._

_She is sexy._

_She is confident._

_She is beautiful._

_She is happy._

_She is everything you will never be._

_Everything you do not deserve._

Hermione took another long drink from the bottle of firewhisky on her bedroom vanity.

The dress she had decided to wear barely covered the curve of her arse and rested low on her bust. The golden color seemed to glow against the lightly bronzed tint of her skin.

Hermione would never wear this. This wasn’t her.

This was someone who she could live through. Someone she was able to use to drown herself in things other than her sorrow. And she did.

Almost every Saturday for nearly two years Hermione found herself transformed into this persona.

This woman lived freely in a world made for her, something Hermione would never get to experience. This woman sauntered down the cobbled street of Knockturn Alley turning heads of everyone she passed as she approached Twizted.

This woman had people vying for her attention. Drowning her in alcohol so she wouldn’t need to. Giving her substitutes for the warmth and light she has lost in forms of pills and potions. Filling every hole she asked of them, except the one within her chest she was desperate to rid herself of.

No. This wasn’t Hermione Granger, except it was. It was the Hermione that nearly a decade of disappointment, loss, fear, grief, despair, and hatred had created.

The person who stared at her was a stranger.

A stranger who allowed her to live within the library of her mind, an escape to feel within herself the anguish she hides each day, while being someone Hermione knows she will never be.

The world Hermione lived in freely--made for her--resided in the memories of her daughter, her parents, Fred, Remus, Tonks, Sirius, Lavender, Colin, and countless other people she had lost over the years. It was the only world she truly wanted. These nights were all she could allow herself to have, to truly feel all that the storm within her has become.

Hermione was so thankful for the woman for she allowed her to live in both worlds; numbing that of her physical body with mind-altering substances and sex to try dulling the gut-wrenching pain and remorse her consciousness experienced in tandem. 

Hermione blinked; blue eyes blinked back. The sun began to set casting a. orange hue within her room. Soon Twizted would open its doors and in the midst of bodies twisting and writhing on the dancefloor she would be there behind a mask she painted so well because this woman was not Hermione Granger.

“Where did you go, Hermione?” the woman whispered from scarlet painted lips, strikingly bright eyes blinking at her.

_I’ve been lost for years._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be looking for the next chapter by 2/24/21 <3 Thank you guys!


	4. Still Don't Know My Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning: There are explicit sexual scenes that may fall under dub-con depending on how you view it. There is also a scene heavily focusing on scars, however they are not self-inflicted. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> Chapter Title: "Still Don't Know My Name" by Labrinth

The evening air of Saturday, August 26, 2006 was heavy, humid, and thick. The cropped, black, bob clung to the neck of the woman strutting down the side streets of Diagon Alley. A few wizards or witches would pass, many patrons closing their businesses for the day, looking to return home to their families.

Inside the woman’s mind, Hermione was doing the same.

Transfiguration charms and an altered version of Polyjuice potion was all that was needed for Hermione to have her escape inside the world built from her library of memories and remorse.

The woman—the stranger—moved with ease on the path to Knockturn Alley. A place that once occupied the likes of any dark wizard and their magical essentials, was now a street teeming with nightlife.

With each step the woman took on the crumbling stone of the street, Hermione followed, inching closer to a doorway, within her mind’s library, that each day she struggled to keep bricked away. Just as the street was rocky and broken to rubble, the walls holding back the storm of emotional turmoil years of war, conflict, and heartache created slowly fell away.

This was Hermione’s life. It had been her life for two years. Almost every week, she lived through a body not her own, as she lived through her mind, relinquishing all the happiness she could from the memories she had been given.

That is, before the present caught up to her, and she was forced back to the reality of all she had lost. But, for those few short hours, her body numb from the substances provided by Twizted, and her mind—her subconsciousness—living freely in a world built on what she believed were her deepest desires—more years with her loved ones.

Neon lights flashes across the alley reflecting off the stonewalls of the few clothing shops and restaurants on Knockturn. The windows vibrate with the rhythm of the bass pouring into the air from different bars and clubs beginning their nights.

Each beat reverberates through the air while matching the pounding of Hermione’s heartbeat as she stares into the face of the red door of her mind. Everything behind that door was everything Hermione never wanted to face.

The woman stood on the corner watching groups of wizards and witches passing through the charms of Twizted. Everything behind that entrance was everything the woman needed to help Hermione.

Both women hold their breath. Hermione turns the doorknob as the woman steps off the curb. The red door is open wide. The faint glimmer of a charm is wavering over the entrance. At once, they walk through. Darkness falls over the woman’s mind and Hermione is oblivious to reality. All either care about is ending the ache within themselves.

* * *

Light bursts through Hermione’s eyes. She gasps for air, eyes blinking rapidly to look at the world around her. The sun is high in the sky, large fluffy white clouds float leisurely above her. Peace radiates throughout her paradise.

In the distance, Hermione sees a small figure running toward her as a larger figure chases it. Instantly, her heart begins to pick up, and all stress leaves her body. The closer the figures approach the more she can see—can feel.

The smaller figure grows into a child with outrageously curly flaming red hair and a smile that would light Hermione’s world on the darkest of days.

She runs.

She runs just as fast as the little girl.

Her arms are open wide and within moments she has her.

_Rose._

As her small body collides with Hermione, she blinks. The world shakes.

Music blares in Hermione’s ears and lights begin to flash in her eyes. A hand is touching her hips. Lips are grazing her ear, trailing wet kisses down her neck. The black-haired woman blinked.

Ron lifts his head from the crook of her neck. He squeezes her hips with a small smile. Despite all he had been through, his happiness had never died. Hermione could never see the ghosts in his eyes like she could with George or Harry.

Ron’s hand is warm in her hand, but for some reason, Hermione couldn’t grasp it. She blinked down at their hands, seeing their fingers were intwined, but she couldn’t feel him.

She always came into the world with a hope it would be different, but it was always the same. The world wasn’t whole. It wasn’t true. It moved like memories in a Pensieve.

A tug at her sleeve turned Hermione’s head to look down at her daughter. Rose opened her mouth and began to speak, but no words came out. A look of confusion crossed Hermione’s face as she looked at Ron who seemed to chuckle at what their daughter had said.

Hermione hesitantly nodded as Ron did and trailed after Ron walking behind Rose. Looking around, Hermione noticed there were no other people on the street. The park Rose had run from, at that moment had been crowded by small children and their families but was now deserted. A swing shifted ghostly through the air.

Suddenly, it was dark. The air chilled harshly. They were inside the kitchen of Hermione’s childhood home. Sitting at the small, dark-wooded table near the bay window was a long-legged man with gray hair peppering his short chestnut curls. His knee was bent, hooking the heel of his shoe in a rung of his chair as he stirred a spoon in the mug while he flipped the page of the novel in his lap.

A choked sob filled the silence. Slowly, the man raised his head. The tan skin of his face wrinkled near his eyes forming a bright, white, toothy grin Hermione wished to see every day. Eugene Granger looked just as he had the morning Hermione had to obliviate him.

“Dad!” she exclaimed rushing to his side. The book in his lap fell to the floor with a loud _Bang!_ from the force of her embrace around his neck.

She blinked.

The atmosphere rippled. A different song was playing then before, but the lights were just as bright. The floor seemed to be swaying beneath her.

“Hey, Lena! Another round?” a voice, deep, rough, shouted from her left. She looked to see a broad chested wizard walking toward her. He wrapped his thick arms around her, as she did to him. Lena blinked into his chest.

Hermione could feel the slight movement of his shoulders, but the air was just as quiet. She lifted her head from his chest to see her dad laughing heartily—quietly.

“Dad?” Hermioned asked. She looked behind her to see Ron and Rose. Ron’s hair was longer than it had been moments ago.

The ginger locks curling slightly at the ends as they brushed the tips of his ears. Rose had grown. Her impish brown eyes bore into Hermione. The bright crimson curls were duller, darker, longer sweeping past her ribcage.

Ron’s mouth moved chattering wordlessly as Rose walked into the kitchen to sit by Eugene at the table.

Hermione watched from the corner of the room as the three individuals sat at the table talking mindlessly about something, she wished she could have known. She wanted so desperately for this to all be real, but she knew it was just a dream.

In some moments, she could see the world shifting, becoming something entirely after drifting away like ink in water. Spiraling and fading into an ethereal experience.

Hermione hadn’t seen her father since the summer before she, Harry, and Ron had hid throughout Great Britain looking for the last of the Horcruxes. No matter how much she dreamed, her father had never met Rose. And Rose, her sweet little flower, had never blossomed into the young girl sitting by Ron.

The girl seemed to be—at this moment—around eight years old. The longer they sat there, the darker and longer her hair grew to be, just as she did. Taller, older, curvier. It was like the girl had grown into a woman with every movement the girl made.

Ron and Eugene were unbothered by what they were witnessing, but Hermione knew it was a warning. The older Rose grew, the closer Hermione was to leaving her behind.

Tears started to form in the corner of her eyes. It never seemed to last long enough. She never got to experience enough.

She suffered everyday with the weight of the world digging into her chest closing off her oxygen. Stepping through the red door, though, Hermione could breathe, and every breath was full of the freshest air.

The hurricane was gone. The storm fell way to a vivid blue sky silhouetted by sparrows and owls striving to reach the heights of clouds. Hermione was already there.

A tear slid down her cheek. Hermione blinked to push the others away.

The world tilted.

What once was music she could hear distinctly, was now just a vibrating hum through her mind and body. The neon lights flickering left her dizzy. A layer of sweat created a sheen on her skin, sliding against the hard body behind her which gripped her hips far to roughly. The woman would have bruises.

Hot, sweaty bodies of witches and wizards pushed against the woman from every angle. There was not an inch of her skin that she could feel untouched by the people writhing against one another. The smell of cigarettes, whiskey-hinted breath, and sex filled her senses. The woman blinked.

Rose stood looking at Hermione from the table. Ron and Eugene were standing behind her. She was Hermione’s height. Her hair reaching the middle of her back in kinky, dark toffee spirals. The mischievous gleam on her face subsided to curiosity and—and sympathy?

The rich brown of her eyes had lightened into a bright tawny hue. _What?_ Hermione thought. _No, Rose doesn’t look like this._ _This girl looks like me._

Hermione blinked.

A large arm was wrapped around her shoulders. The weight of it heavy on the woman’s body, which had consumed too much alcohol to stay up straight and whatever that bubbly purple liquid was in the phial in the women’s room.

The woman blinked.

Rose was walking toward Hermione. Ron trailing behind her. Tears started to form again, much faster this time. _No. No not yet._

Hermione blinked.

Bricks were scrapping harshly against the back of the woman’s arms and legs. Hands, rough, hard, and calloused, groped her breast over the silky golden fabric of her dress and the other the soft skin of her thigh.

A broad chest pushed her deeper into the wall of the building. Teeth grazed a small spot connecting her neck to her shoulder. The woman let out a loud breathy moan, arms raising to tug slightly at the short tufts of raven hair near the nape of the man’s neck. His was voice as rough as his hands.

“ _Fuck_ , baby. You feel so _fucking_ good. I want you. I want to shag you against the wall. Right-,” his hips rolled into the black-haired woman’s eliciting a whimper from her red-smeared lips, “-right here. Every bloke is going to walk by to see me fucking you like the whore you are. Aren’t, I?” he growled into her ear, biting down hard on the spot on her shoulder causing her to cry.

Her nails on her right hand dug into his neck, her left grabbing at the wall to steady herself. He lifted his head to stare down at her.

The woman blinked.

Rose, or who should have been Rose, stood in front of her. It was uncanny. The girl looked like Hermione, but different. She was average in height, curvy around her middle and hips, with deep brown curls tumbling down her shoulders and waist. Her skin smooth but not perfect telling the story of her past.

Hermione shook her head. She didn’t quite understand. It was her, but before…everything. Before the war, before months in hiding, before being tortured, before years of happiness being ripped away in the blink of an eye, and before she had fucked up everything she ever wanted in life.

The girl’s mouth opened to speak, but again, no words filtered into the air between them. Hermione watched closely to try to decipher what she may have been trying to say, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t.

Hermione blinked.

He thrusted harshly against her hips, pushing her shoulders into the walls harder. The air stung at the small cuts littering the exposed skin of her shoulder blades. The man’s breath caressed across the woman’s face, hot, reeking of stale beer and weed.

“Merlin, you’re so fucking good. You’re taking my cock like a good fucking slut with all these people walking by,” he hissed through his teeth. A hand moved from holding her by her ass to gripping her throat roughly.

The man squeezed tight against the sides of her slender neck. His fingers puncturing the area recently bruised by his teeth and harsh lips. Hazel eyes glared down at her. His pace increasing. Every gasp of air refueled the dizzy tingles filtering throughout her body. The woman could feel the coil in the pit of her stomach winding tight, pushing higher, and higher.

“You better fucking scream for me, Lena. This whole goddamn street is going to hear you—hear what an easy fucking whore you are.”

Lena could feel her legs beginning to shake. She looked up at him, nodding.

She blinked.

Hermione was holding the hands of the girl. She never got to hug Rose one last time. The tears finally spilled over her cheeks.

How could she see her again and not hug her before they ran out of time? How could she have done this?

She waits every day of every week for the moment she gets to hold Rose, and Hermione missed that chance. She plunged forward and grabbed the girl hard. Hermione buried her face into the mass of tangled curls, staring at Ron from over her shoulder.

Tears streamed. Hermione blinked.

Lena could taste the salty wetness of tears pooling near the corner of her mouth. The man still gripped her by her throat thrusting into her wet center. Moans, whimpers, and sharp cries filled the air.

She wasn’t sure who was making which noise, but the sensations caused by the man’s hands were far greater than she could have wanted. The night had been successful in slightly dulling the ache within her chest.

Her mind was boggled by booze and the potions as her body was reeling in pleasure, a feeling much better than the heartache she lived through each day, but the hole was still there.

The man seen her tears, and only smirked. His hand dropped from her throat the strum against her clit. The added intensity caused her hips to jolt against the man’s. He growled against her shoulder. Lena looked up at the sky.

Lena blinked.

The backdoor of the kitchen was open. Hermione stared at her hands held in the girl’s.

She could feel them! Why could she feel her hands but not Rose or her dad, or Ron?

The sun had fallen behind the horizon. The night sky glittered with stars. They stepped out of the house and began walking toward the street. She looked to her right and the girl was pointing above them.

Hermione followed the line of her arm, seeing a cluster of stars north of Orion’s Belt. She tried to understand, but in that moment her mind was lost. The girl’s hand grasped hers tighter. Hermione looked to see her staring deep into Hermione’s eyes. The gold specks glowed in the light of the moon. Within them, Hermione could see the sympathy from before, but her eyes seemed knowledgeable.

Like they held a secret for Hermione, but no way of telling her.

She blinked.

The man had gone. Lena stayed against the wall. Her knickers were pooled at her ankles. She wasn’t quite sure where her shoes were. The night had cooled slightly, but now the stickiness of the air just seemed to add to the stickiness slick against the inside of her thighs.

Lena wasn’t sure if she preferred the bite of stones against her back, shoulders, and bare-arse, or the deep punctures of splintered cobblestones on the bottoms of her feet.

Down the street, across from the old building of Borgin and Burkes, the Floo Station cast a sickly hue on the nearly empty street. Lena was glad the Ministry had implemented more ways of travel for magical individual’s because Godric knew she could _not_ apparate right not.

The Floo Networks were constructed to look less like the traditional fireplaces held in homes, and more like small alcoves in alleyways or wait stations for muggle bus stops. Lena walked through the Floo in a bright flash of light, and the tingling in the air caused only by magic. She stepped out on to the sidewalk a block away from her flat.

She blinked.

Pebbles skipped across the pavement as Hermione walked hand in hand with herself. Under a streetlamp meters away, the red door sat, glowering. Everything behind that door was everything Hermione never wanted to face.

They drew nearer, and Hermione could faintly see the shadows of the flats surrounding her own in the darkness of the street. The girl turned to face Hermione. Slowly, she raised Hermione’s eyes to gaze at her face.

A smile formed on her plump lips, sad and apologizing. Her mouth opened and slowly she spoke.

The girl’s lips formed small words, seeming to repeat the phrase. Hermione watched closely, mimicking her, trying with all she can to understand.

The quiet of the world began to buzz. Like a noise, far away, a bumbling louder than a honeybee in a window across the room.

Three words. She knew it was three words. She focused. Hermione hadn’t concentrated so hard in nearly ten years.

“Please! I don’t understand,” Hermione begged the girl. Faintly, noise poured through the air.

_Tru…_

_S…_

“Again! Please. Please help me,” she gripped the girl’s shoulders. The red door appeared to be moving on its own, drawing closer and closer with every beat of Hermione’s heart.

_Trust…_

_Star…_

“Trust Stars? What do you mean? What about the stars?”

_Trust.._

_The…_

_Stars…_

Her mind whirled with possibilities.

Hermione blinked.

The rows of flats lined on each side of the street shown just how lonely life could be. It was dark. It was quiet. But it was rarely peaceful.

Blink.

The girl was gone. The girl who mirrored Hermione perfectly was gone.

Before her was a young girl of the same age, with fiery locks coiled high on her head, with a few loose tendrils curling by her cheek. She smiled vibrantly, dimples caving both sides of her face. She was tall. So tall, and strong, and beautiful.

The girl was everything Hermione dreamed Rose would blossom into. This girl was what plagued her dreams, her heart; caused her so much despair and remorse.

“Trust the stars, Mum. They will show you the way to what your heart desires,” she whispered softly. Her hand came up to touch the side of Hermione’s jaw. The same impishness settled across her features. Hermione closed her eyes, relishing in the feeling of her daughter’s touch.

“I will, Little Briar,” Hermione spoke kissing the girl lightly on her forehead.

She turned to face the door. She looked down.

Her feet were no longer inside her trainers but were now planted on the rough pavement. The wind blew slightly sending a chill down her arms and legs, exposed by the golden scrap of fabric one could consider calling a dress.

Hermione glanced behind her at Rose, who began to flicker between the image she could imagine and the image of the younger Hermione. A lone tear slipped from her eye down her cheek.

Wiping it away, she looked to the sky one last time, knowing that after this moment, until the next opportunity she had to venture into her world, the sky would never be so clear. Above her she looked at the small cluster of stars appreciatively. For thousands of years, humans have looked to the stars for answers, for dreams, for guidance— _wait…_

Hermione’s eyes widen. She turned quickly to look at the girl behind her. The flickering image of herself and her daughter smiled at her. Hermione had understood.

“Trust the stars…” she murmured. With a last look behind her, a studious glance above her, and a deep breath she turned the doorknob.

She blinked.

Lena turned the key inside the lock. The door opened.

She blinked.

Both women stood before the doorways knowing they hadn’t fulfilled the hole within their chest they had sought to resolve.

Hermione felt she may have a new answer.

Lena felt the sting of open sores on her skin.

The worlds of Hermione’s mind and her reality began to merge.

The women walked through the doors. With a white burst of light behind their eyes, the women were now just one woman.

A sad, broken woman who just wanted to find a way to heal.

A woman who had lived through war, the death of her friends, the loss of her parents, and the death of her only child resulting in consequences that pushed her greatest love away.

Hermione shut the door of her flat. With a wave of her hand across the room, light began to flood across the room in a warm glow. Her muddy feet padded across the carpet of her foyer, down the hall, passed her sitting room, to her bedroom.

She slowly pulled the flimsy dress over her shoulders. She wasn’t sure where her knickers had gone, or her shoes for that matter. Crossing the room into the bathroom, she chanced a look at herself in the mirror.

_How could I have believed the girl was me now? Look at me._

Scars ran down the length of her body. Small slices. _Glass from the chandelier._

Dark, spidery webs of green and gray across her ribs and sternum reaching to the underside of her bust. _Dolohov. Department of Mysteries._

Small crescent shapes on her upper arms. _Snatchers._

A word. The word that defined her for most of her life. The word that had caused all of the other scars written into her body and her mind. _Bellatrix Lestrange._

Hermione shut her eyes. The images of that day pouring behind her lids like a film. She would never forget the putrid scent of her breath blowing across her face. The look of hatred and glee behind black eyes. Ron’s shouting from miles away. Whispering voices to the side of the drawing room. A small scuffing sound piercing through her heavy breathing, whimpers, and cries.

Stoney gray eyes peering at her. Two pair. One sat gripping the edge of the walnut desk too tightly. One hard, calculating. Watching Bellatrix’s actions as if her was strategizing for a counterattack. Between them, a short witch. Small, soft-spoken, but fierce. Her thin lips pursed as she wrung her hands by her waist.

Hermione was not the same young girl.

Time had been unkind to her.

She a _ccio_ ed her wand from Merlin knows where. The wand zipped through the air into her hands. Hermione muttered a spell under her breath and the mirror she was peering into slowly frosted over.

She sighed loudly turning to the bathtub in the corner. She wavered her wand again. The tap turned on with hot steamy water filling the bath with a deep fragrance of lavender and peppermint.

In the closet by the door she grabbed two towels and a washing cloth and tip toed her way to the side of the tub before stepping in. The steam rose to wrap around her comfortingly. The water was hot, almost too hot, but it soothed the burning skin from the small scratches on her body and the dull ache between her thighs.

Hermione washed herself slowly, taking time to clean every part of her that felt raw, exposed, vulnerable. As the steam rose into a wall around the room, Hermione began the emotionally and mentally exhausting job of building her walls inside her mind.

The wall was placed block by block to close the library of emotions and memories away, specially the bright, angry red door located within it, far inside the expanse of rowed shelves.

She wasn’t strong enough to live with the memories freely.

Not yet. But she would get there.

One day.

This time she knew to trust the stars. That’s what she would do.

For now, though, she pushed forward. Hermione had to.

She had a life she has to live.

And a job.

She had a job that would have her facing a ghost. A real ghost, and not the one she often let her mind drift to on nights like this one.

This ghost was real and had haunted her with glaringly icy eyes since Thursday. She would be meeting with him the following Friday afternoon and she needed to be ready. But she would get there.

For now, though, she would trust the stars. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Update 2/28/21 <3
> 
> Update: I’m sorry everyone! There is a family issue going on at the moment. I didn’t mean to leave you guys hanging for the next update. I will make it up to y’all and the next update will be 2 chapters! So be watching :)


	5. Sign of the Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, kids! I'm sorry for the wait for this update. I have been having a hard time balancing my college work, working on this story and others (hint, hint *wink wink*), as well as the family issue that had came up the previous weekend. I'm just gonna go ahead and say that I will most likely cut back on weekly updates. At least until the semester is over, where I can work uninterrupted.  
> However, you can follow me on TikTok with the same username for info on new updates :)
> 
> Chapter Title: "Sign of the Times" by Harry Styles 
> 
> TW: References to self-harm and self-deprecation, read with caution! 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy! <3
> 
> Update: I made a Twitter with the user @mo_rrgue that you can follow too. I’ll be posting update info as well as teasers for future chapters there! Thanks guys :)

Six years had passed since the Dementors left Azkaban, but the air was still just as lifeless.

There was no fulfillment with each breath taken, the more you breath the less oxygen you had.

Draco was suffocating.

Day in and day out, his only companion was the shadow that was cast across the cell floor at odd hours of the day. The other prisoners were no more familiar to him then the relief of fresh air.

Draco had become an outcast early in his sentencing at Azkaban due to his unwillingness to continue advocating for the pure shite that was blood supremacy and muggle discrimination. It hadn’t helped his cause when word had finally got around about his aiding the Saint Potter in the last battle in the courtyard that day.

Enough blood had shed during the war to know better than believe his blood was different from each person who met their end in his childhood home. Afterall, it had been Draco who cleaned the mess as punishment for his and his father’s inability to follow orders.

Loneliness was an understatement, but he knew he deserved it. He knew he deserved everything that had come his way since entering the halls of Hogwarts his first year.

_Absolute fucking rubbish, Draco Malfoy. That’s all you’re ever going to be._

Everyone within the stone walls of the prison let him know that. In all eight years of living in Azkaban, there were possibly eleven days total where he had not been attacked by his _fellow_ Death Eaters.

He had, of course, stood his ground. Malfoy’s do not go down without fighting—even if it’s dirty work. They always come out on top.

He had, but not without his fair share of solitary stays and just as many scars.

 _I deserve those too_ , he often thought to himself.

Each scar glittered across his dirty alabaster skin, silver, pink, and some a gaudy purple. These were his punishment. He knew that. Just as his silence and the silence surrounding him were payments for his sins.

Draco lay across the pathetic excuse of a bed for long hours each day, only to conclude that he had been the most outlandish git in Britain. How was he so unreasonably daft as to believe and buy into the hypocritical bullshit of a psychopath? How had his _father?_

Year after year Draco listened to Lucius lecture him on how Malfoy’s were the epitome of wealth and intelligence, just to fall into a regime with no evidence to support its number one cause. How could he continue to follow the Dark _Lord_ —if you could call him that—knowing he himself wasn’t of pure blood?

So here he lay, by his guess with the location of the sun in his small window, nearing 3 p.m., wondering if he’d ever have the opportunity to prove he wasn’t a mindless Malfoy clone.

Inwardly, he had hoped to use the Malfoy name and fortune to build his own empire.

He wasn’t quite sure what exactly he’d have liked to capitalize on, but the tradition of lobbying Ministry workers and running investments was the last thing he wanted to do. Draco enjoyed having things to call his own, thriving on knowing he had accomplished things for himself, but looking at his life, all he had to call his own was a fifteen-year sentence in Hell. 

It had most definitely been Hell. Draco knew he couldn’t complain though. He had done this to himself. He had watched dozens of people he knew and—not outwardly—respected be murdered.

No punishment could balance the scales of injustice.

Raising his arm to his face, he glared pointedly to the grayed mark. He had tried many times to rid himself of it, but the iron cuffs adorning his wrists negated any magical attempts he could make to remove it.

There were silver and pink and purple scars focused upon the skull and snake, but he could still see it, feel it.

The magic had gone from the mark the moment he seen Voldemort fall into a useless heap in the Hogwarts courtyard, but he still bore _his_ signature on his body. Until the day he could no longer discern the brand on his arm from his scars, he would bare the weight of its burden.

And he hated knowing that.

The thought of being someone defined by nothing except his mistakes, his wrong choices, made Draco’s blood boil. He could feel the beating of his heart quicken and pound in his chest.

_Death Eater._

_Failure._

_Disgrace to the Malfoy name._

_Disappointment._

_Shame._

Draco roared as he raised from his bed, gripping his hair tightly between his fingers. His grip was painful, pulling at his roots. Draco’s scalp burned from the tension of his fists.

His mistakes will be a stain upon his life as dark and ugly and disgusting as the stain upon his skin.

Metal screeched across metal. The door slammed into place as distanced footfalls echoed into his cell.

“Oi, Malfoy! Someone’s here to speak with you,” gruntled voice of the guard rattled Draco. He slowly lifted his head to eye the stout, gray-bearded man.

“Michaelson, who could possibly want to speak with me? And why should I speak to them? I’ve been locked away like bloody animal for the better part of a decade, and now I’m of public interest. How fucking fortunate?” Draco grumbled at the guard his eyebrow raising. His voice was rough and cracked harshly. How long had it been since he spoke?

“Boy, if you know better, you will mind your smart-arse fucking attitude. I don’t give a damn if it’s Babbity Rabbity sitting in that visitor’s hall, you’re gonna get that pretty boy ass of yours out of this cell,” Michaelson matched Draco’s pointed stare, his tone lifted to match the same mocking attitude of a parent chastising a petulant child.

He supposed he was acting rather childish.

Draco grunted in return and rose from his bed. He had grown while in prison, that much he was sure, though his scrawny build countered any intimidation his height would pose. His feet dragged as he approached the guard.

Michaelson muttered an incantation under his breath and hovered his wand over Draco’s cuffed wrists. Vine-like tendrils crept outward from the rough iron in a lazy blue hue, wrapping around each ankle, and connecting each foot to his arms. The guard twirled his wand and instantly the wispy lines of magic fell into heavy iron chains, glowing in the same blue light.

His body sagged from the weight added to his frame. Each link in the chain weighed on him like the deaths in his mind.

To Draco, the chains were the physical representation of every mistake he had made and the clinking they made with each step echoed through his mind mirroring the screams in the Manor’s halls.

But to the guards, and those outside of Azkaban, they were a sign of peace that had yet to be found.

Along the stonewalls, small lanterns shone flickering light in Draco’s path down the stairways leading to the visiting room of Azkaban. He had only been in the room a few times, mostly to speak with Aurors who relayed information for his trial to the Wizengamot, and his mother when she was released from house arrest years before.

Narcissa preferred to Floo him and his father when she wished to speak with them. Draco couldn’t be angry with her decision. If he was given the opportunity, he’d never return to visit his father after his release.

There were no longer Dementors scouring the grounds, but the magic of Azkaban was like a blackhole for the soul.

The same metal scraping ricocheted in the empty corridor. Darkness blanketed the small room. In the middle, a small table and two chairs sat.

Draco felt the club-like hands of the guard grasping his arms pushing him forward. He hung his head and sat at the table.

Michaelson uttered the same incantation that shackled him in his cell, but now the tendrils roped around the legs of the chair and a steel ring between his feet on the floor. The string of magic filtered upward from the floor to wrap itself around the tense muscles of his neck.

As the guard lowered his wand, the weight that crashed down on Draco’s body slumped him forward onto the table. His body tilted forward, placing most of the weight onto his elbows supported on his knees.

Blonde locks fell into a curtain around his face. The ends of each strand brushing softly against his breastbone. The were tangled, matted, and not as bright as they had been in his youth. Draco hoped his visitor would understand his disgruntled appearance. It wasn’t as if _he_ had been living in a medieval prison.

“Kid? I’ll be outside in the hall. When you wanna head back to your cell, just give a shout, yeah?” Michaelson grunted. He was, if Draco really wanted to be honest, the nicer of the guards here. He was definitely a hardass by every standard, but it seemed he had taken to the Malfoy heir over their years together.

“Uh, yeah. Okay, thanks, Otto. Hopefully, this won’t take too long,” Draco spoke softly, his eyes pointing to the ground, observing the cold light emitting from the chains puddled at his feet.

Otto Michaelson stood by the table for a few moments. Draco was sure he was going to speak again, but all too soon, soft thuds of shoes on the stone floor signaled the guard’s exit.

The silence in here was daunting compared to Draco’s cell. Perhaps it was because he was truly alone here.

No other prisoners resided on this level of Azkaban. At least in his cell, there were others who surrounded him, in their own cells. The atmosphere was heavy in nothingness.

Draco supposed that was all he was himself, nothingness. Just a presence much like this archaic excuse for consequence, where every aspect of life worth living for went to die.

There was no way to estimate time in this room. It was much worse than any other room he had been in since his first day those any years ago. Most of the other cells and rooms had small viewing windows, or even larger ones where Draco had sat to watch the restlessness of the black sea beyond the rock-lined shore.

During his time in solitary, he was able to almost keep accurate time with the scheduled food servings, and the shower times. However, the silence, and dull light, as well as the additional ten kilograms of restraints heavy on his body, Draco couldn’t quite be sure if he had been sitting at the table for two minutes, or two hours.

Softly, in the distance, there came a low muffled noise. Draco’s ears perked, straining to hear.

“Hello?” He called. The volume he spoke caused a crack in his tone. The sound seemed to echo not only through the visiting room, but also throughout the damned building. He swallowed harshly.

 _A bloody glass of water would be sp-fucking-tacular right now,_ he thought to himself. His saliva was thick as he swallowed, doing more to worsen his thirst.

Then he heard it.

_Clack. Click, Clack._

The patter began to grow louder, closer.

 _Are-are those women’s heels?_ He though incredulously. Draco’s brow furrowed as his thoughts raced.

Was it his mother? Why would she be visiting him? Is there an issue at the Manor? Was she unwell? His heartbeat rapidly against his ribs, his breath quickened, the rush of air straining his already hoarse throat.

Draco heard hushed conversation on the outside of the door. He couldn’t make out what words were exchanged, but it was definitely a woman speaking with Otto. Draco shook his head in disbelief and worry.

_What in Salazar’s fucking name is going on?_

He was more confused than he had ever been. Draco’s last personal visit was his twenty-first birthday with his mother. That thought furthered his concern.

Brighter orange light cascade upon the floor in a sweeping motion, pulling Draco from his thoughts. The door, heavy, creaked roughly on the hinges.

Otto stood holding the door for the guest. Draco lifted his head, giving Otto a knowing look. The guard smirked at Draco. His grayed beard shifting on his round, pink-tinged face. A sparkle shone in his eyes that Draco hadn’t believed he’d seen before.

As Draco opened his mouth to speak, a rush of air escaped his lungs. His eyes popped from his head in shock. He hadn’t anticipated this.

She patted Otto on the arm appreciatively, her face lilting in sincerity. Her tanned legs glowed in the warm light, looking much longer than Draco remembered, but he supposed this was in part due to the red laced heels adorning her feet.

A black skirt clung to her shapely hips, and Draco could just make out the curved bump of her stomach through the fabric. The blouse wrapping her torso mirrored the shade of crimson coloring her heels, as well as the pouty flesh of her lips.

In the back of his mind, Draco could see her still sitting at the back table of the library gnawing on those exact lips, nose scrunched up in confusion as she twirled a strand of that ungodly hair around her fingers.

 _Merlin, her fucking hair._ He wanted to roll his eyes at the thought, but he couldn’t tear them away from her curls.

Draco had almost forgotten how large it was. Her small frame appeared taller with her hair.

Dark brown tresses, frizzy, tangled, unruly, completely, and ridiculously alive with magic. A storm to be reckoned with. A fucking catastrophic hurricane.

Fire and ice and snark and kindness and a complete fucking know it all. He couldn’t believe he was seeing her.

For the first time in eight Godric damned years. And he was fucking livid.


End file.
